At this Long John burst out laughing. “Well, you’re a cute one,” said he; and thrusting his hand into his pocket he brought out a piece of tobacco which he invited Socrates to come and get. Sox flew down to a convenient rock and reached for the morsel, but the moment he perceived that it was not anything he could eat, he drew back in disdain, and eying Long John with severity, remarked, “Bow-wow.”
Now, as I have intimated, nothing was so exasperating to Long John as to have any one say “bow-wow” to him, and not considering that the offender was only a bird, he raised his hatchet and would have ended Sox’s career then and there had not Joe stayed his arm.
At being thus thwarted, Long John turned upon my companion, and for a moment I felt a little uneasy lest his temper should for once get the better of his discretion; but I need not have alarmed myself, for Long John’s outbreaks of rage were always carefully calculated when directed against any one or anything capable of retaliation in kind, and very probably he had already concluded that two well-grown boys like ourselves, used to all kinds of hard work, might prove an awkward handful for one whose muscles had been rendered flabby by lack of exercise.
At any rate, he quickly calmed down again, pretending to laugh at the incident; but though he made some remark about “a real smart bird,” I guessed from the gleam in his little ferrety eyes that if he could lay hands on Socrates, that aged scholar’s chances of ever celebrating his one hundredth anniversary would be slim indeed.
“Who’s the thing belong to, anyhow?” asked John. “There’s no one living around here that I know of.”
“He belongs to a man who lives somewhere up on this mountain,” I replied. “You’ve probably heard of him: Peter the Hermit.”
“Him!” exclaimed Long John, looking quickly all around, as though he feared the owner might make his appearance. “Well, I’m off. I’ve got to get back to Sulphide to-night, so I’ll dig out at once.”
So saying, he picked up his long-handled shovel, and using it upside-down as a walking-staff, away he went, striding over the snow at a great pace; while Socrates, seeing him depart, very appropriately called after him, “Good-bye, John.”